Nell started, turned on the top step of the Tubbs’ back porch, and looked searchingly at the old woman with a frown on her brow. “Now, there’s Mr. Joe Hurley,” pursued Mother Tubbs placidly. “There ain’t a thing the matter with that man but that he needs a wife.” “Why doesn’t he take one, then?” demanded Nell wickedly. “There are plenty of them around here whose husbands don’t seem to care anything about them.” “Like me and my Sam, heh?” put forth Mother Tubbs, still amused. “But I reckon if Mr. Joe Hurley, or any other man, should attempt to run away with me, Sam would go gunning for him. What they call the ‘first law of Nater’—which is the sense of possession, not self-preservation—would probably get to working in Sam’s mind. “He’d get to thinking of my flapjacks and chicken-with-fixin’s and his bile would rise ’gainst the man—no matter who—who was enjoying them victuals. “Oh, yes. Not only is the way to a man’s heart through his stomach; but believe me, Nell, most men are like those people the Bible speaks of ‘whose god is their stomach.’” “Does the Bible say that, Mother Tubbs?” broke in the girl. “Somethin’ near to it.” “Then there is some sense in the Bible, isn’t there?” “Hush-er-you, Nell Blossom!” ejaculated the old woman sternly. “Does seem awful that you’re such a heathen. The Bible’s plumb full of good advice, and lovely stories, and sweet truths. I used to read it a lot before I broke my specs. But I remember lots that I read, thanks be.” “I don’t care for stories,” said the girl crossly. “And I don’t know that I believe there is a heaven,” she went on quickly. “Once you are dead I reckon that’s all there is to it. I won’t learn any more songs about heaven. I used to cry over them—and about folks dying. I remember the first song Dad taught me to sing in the saloons. It used to make me cry when I came to the verse: Last night as I lay on my pillow— Last night as I lay on my bed— Last night as I lay on my pillow, I dreamt that my Bonnie was dead. Bring back! Oh, bring back! Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me—— It’s all stuff and nonsense!” she broke off with confidence. “That ain’t a hymn,” said Mother Tubbs placidly. “Hymns is different, Nell. A good, uplifting hymn like ‘Am I a Soldier of the Cross,’ or ‘Beulah Land,’ takes you right out of yourself—bears your heart up on wings o’ hope and helps you forget you’re only a poor, miserable worm——” “I’m not a worm!” interrupted Nell with vigor. “I’m as good as anybody—as good as anybody in Canyon Pass, anyway, even if some of these women do look down on me.” “Of course you are, Nell. ‘Worm’ is just a manner o’ speaking.” “Dad trained me to sing in these saloons, I know,” went on the girl quickly, angrily, “because he was too weakly to use a pick and shovel. We had to eat, and he thought he had to have drink. So I had to earn it. But I’ve been a good girl.”